Wes Vos

. . . the more resistance, the more Bothans would die.

Wes Vos

Bothans," he raised his voice, "Bothuwai is once again yours!"

. . . There were those, though, that did not cheer. These would form the base of a rebellion that would stretch far into the future, having implications that even they did not yet realize. It was with them that the true hopes and dreams of the Bothan people lay.

Bothuwai – Razed

How did it come to this? How could this have happened? How, how, how, how . . . why?

“Ar'kai!” The Bothan thrust his fist into the air, his fur rippling violently, eyes alight with hellfire and bloodlust.

The Bothan crowd roared their assent, fists stabbing at the air. “Ar'kai!” Their cries resounded through the torch-lit darkness; the Galactic Empire would pay for its atrocities.


Before


Garen Racto was not suited for this sort of work. He was supposed to be an information analyst. He was supposed to have an office, a desk, a work terminal. He was supposed to be safe and hidden away on Yavin IV.

But he was not, for any number of reasons. Instead he was here, on Bothawui, in the midst of what would surely soon become an open revolt against the Trem Clan and their Imperial leash holders.

“I would have preferred we had met elsewhere, but you had to see it for yourself, yes?”

Garen Racto turned toward the voice's unexpected source, noting a short Bothan that hadn't seemed to be there only a moment ago. “I'm sorry?”

The Bothan waved casually. “Bothawui, such as it is. It's really not safe, you know? Being here in general, I mean.”

Garen took a step forward, taking a short breath. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

“I hope not,” The Bothan replied.

Garen moved a little closer, bending to reduce the distance between himself and the Bothan even more. “Should we be talking here?” He asked quietly.

“Here's as good as any,” The Bothan remarked casually. “We own the spy business on this world, you know? The Empire can put however many ships it wants in orbit, however many boots it can find on the ground, but as long as Bothans are on Bothawui, this will be our world.”

Garen straightened up, moving back a little and taking up a more comfortable position against the wall. “I'm sure you know why I'm here?”

The Bothan nodded, and didn't seem interested in any other sort of affirmation.

“I would appreciate a response.”

The Bothan's fur rippled, but Garen wasn't sure what for. “The Coalition seems content to sit and watch at Kothlis; the Empire seems to be having a grand time at Bothawui. Corinth has decided to declare its independence. The position of First Secretary might as well not exist. The Trem Clan has betrayed us, and they have done so with bloodshed . . . with death. This is not the Way. This is not right. So what can your Alliance do for the Bothan Way? What should your presence here matter to me?”

Garen took a deep breath, stalling for time. “I'm not really a . . . I don't do this sort of thing.”

“I know precisely who you are, Mr. Racto. Just answer my question.”

Garen turned to look the Bothan in the eye, his uncertainty fading and his voice growing firm. “If we succeed, no Bothan will ever need fear the Empire again. I'm offering you the chance to win; one victory, one mortal wound, one final shattering of Imperial Order. What could serve your Way any more completely?”

The Bothan blinked, his features unreadable. “The Bothan Way will be restored, Mr. Racto. You tell me that this new Rebel Alliance can help achieve that, and I believe you. But the Clans are not united. Even on this world there is still division; those who wish to appease their Imperial masters, those who wish to drive them away, those who wish to continue as though it had never happened . . .

“I can make you no promises, Mr. Racto. I can say only this: the Spynet exists to see the Bothan Way preserved, and the Spynet serves all those who facilitate the dictates of the Way. You should go now.”

The short Bothan turned and walked down the dark alley leading away from the open street, and soon he disappeared, vanished into the shadows, dissolved into the darkness. Garen Racto was alone, and he had gained no real answers.

What do you think? The voice intruded into his mind, and Garen began walking as he pondered that question.

You're good, but the Bothan Spynet is flesh and blood; it's hardware; it's dependable.

It's detectable, however 'good' the Bothans may be at what they do.

You aren't immune, Skynet; you would do well toremember that.

The intrusion of Skynet into Garen's cybernetic brain ceased, and he was alone to ponder those abstract, living qualities embodied by that nameless Bothan. Could Skynet really ever hope to replace them? This much was sure: Skynet couldn't fight the Empire . . . but the Bothans could.





During

Garen Racto worked with a speed and efficiency impossible by “normal” humans. He was back in his element, safely on Yavin IV, analyzing data, checking probabilities, correlating information. Numbers, lines of code, input/output, pure communication . . .

. . .

. . .

“Garen? Garen!” Garen was physically shook back to reality, and his glazed eyes latched on to the first real thing they found. “Are you okay? What's wrong?”

He shook his head, back and forth, back and forth. Shook his head, back and forth . . . “Bothawui: it's . . . gone.”

The Intelligence man squinted at him, not understanding. “What are you talking about, Garen?”

The cyborg finally managed a breath, though apparently still unable to blink. “Base . . . Delta, Zero . . .”

The man's face contorted in disbelief. “What? How . . .”

Garen pointed at his head, drawing circles with his finger. “Skynet.”

“Sir? Sir! We've got reports incoming! Something's happening at Bothawui!”

The Intelligence officer shook his head, color draining from his face as he backed away from Garen Racto. “No: it has already happened.”

The Empire had razed Bothawui. There would be no rebellion on that world.





After

Garen Racto watched the torch-lit procession in stunned disbelief, pulling his coat tighter as the night chill dug in. The more resistance, the more Bothans will die.

Ar'kai . . . Has it come to this?

As a pacifist, Garen Racto had run out of ways to defend his beliefs.

“Welcome to Nelvaan,” A barely familiar voice said. The short Bothan extended his hand, which happened to be holding a cup of something. “Drink it; it's warm, and . . . tolerable. Local stuff.” The Bothan shook the cup lightly, and Garen took it reluctantly.

“I assume you know why I'm here again?”

The Bothan nodded. “I also know why you think you're here.”

Garen took a sip of the warm liquid, finding it . . . tolerable. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

The Bothan shrugged, the fur on his shoulders shifting oddly. “We'll see. So you want to hear it from us, right? Why the Empire . . . you know.”

Garen shook his head, taking another sip of the liquid as he stared off at the distant group of torch-bearing Bothans framed in that frozen wasteland. “Desire has nothing to do with my being here.”

The Bothan nodded in understanding. “We, uhh . . . we called it a 'demonstration.' We wanted to show the Empire that they were only still at Bothawui because we hadn't bothered running them out yet. The problem was . . .” He paused for a moment, considering something, “about half of our 'demonstrators' were from other Bothan worlds.”

“You revolted?” Garen asked.

The Bothan shrugged again, but his fur rippled differently this time. “It might have looked like that at first glance. Couple thousand Stormtroopers drop from the comms without warning, half of the Trem-loyal officials go missing . . . I could see why they would think we were revolting. We just wanted them to know . . . to know the Bothan people would not be occupied. To know that Bothawui was still ours.”

“And then?” Garen prodded.

“And then?” The Bothan balked. “The Mid Rim Protectorate doesn't even have a moff! There wasn't even anybody to order a BDZ! It wasn't supposed to happen like this . . . not like this . . .”

Garen waited a moment, his cybernetic brain permitting him to remain sufficiently detached from the genocide he was so casually discussing, stalling until the Bothan had collected himself enough to continue. “So that was it? They thought they were losing control of the planet?”

The Bothan shook his head, shutting his eyes tight as he calmed himself. “The rebellion on Bothawui had gotten out of hand long before our demonstration; the Empire feared it may push all of Bothan Space into war against them. They sought to prevent that. They sought to make the Bothan people understand the price of opposing Imperial Law.”

“Obviously that didn't work.”

The Bothan's fur rippled again, and Garen knew that something was wrong. “There's a reason they're on a frozen wasteland in the Outer Rim chanting 'Ar'kai,'” He answered, gesturing at the indistinct haze of Bothans in the distance, “instead of back on their homeworlds making these same declarations before millions of their own clan members. That damn Coalition took a good piece of the Bothan Defense Force when they claimed Kothlis. The rest shot their Trem 'commanders' in the head and ran back home when it happened, trying to fortify what I can only call 'true' Bothan worlds at this point. I'm afraid the Empire may have succeeded in its goal; they just may have broken the will of the Bothan people.”

“Who ordered the Base Delta Zero?” Garen pressed on; his cold, logical mind preventing him from empathizing with the Bothan intelligence operative.

He shook his head again, his snout twitching oddly. “I don't know; don't know if the Spynet does. When they did it, they moved fast. A few extra ships dropped out of hyperspace, there was a secure HoloNet transmission to the command ship . . . and then the order went out, and it happened. Seconds passed, and it was under way.”

“And it just happened like that?”

“Yep. Most of their ground forces had either pulled out or were hopelessly pinned down. We did too good of a job with our demonstration,” He finally admitted, a bitter smile showing through. “The Trem were a bunch of backstabbing bastards; the Empire had no reason to keep them alive. They all burned together.”

“And where were you when all of this happened?”

The operative shook his head, a more genuine smirk defying his dour mood. “Oh no, Mr. Racto; the Bothan Spynet doesn't give those sorts of secrets away.”

“So how serious is this Ar'kai?” Garen asked, changing subjects as he did his best to stretch his legs, his cup having run dry and the cold once more intruding into his clothes.

“These guys are serious,” The Bothan said, pointing at the torch-bearing mob that stretched across the ice field. “They'll fight until every last one of them is dead, which won't be long from now if they're the only ones fighting.” Garen almost smirked at the lead-in the Bothan was working on; almost. “So does the Alliance to Restore the Republic still want to help us fight the Empire?” The human cyborg from Alliance Intelligence looked over at the short alien belonging to the Bothan Spynet to see his fur rippling as he smiled another bitter smile.

Red vessels of Inferno Fleet fired upon by independent worlds

Bothuwai – Razed

They had to be stopped. This had to end.

When Jarvis Ragnar had started his personal crusade, vengeance was his only companion. But now he had something else.

Now he had something real.

His rage had not subsided, but it had been superseded: he dare not hope, but still he might dream. And it was in those dreams that he found the strength to carry on, to shed the past and pray for the future. His mistakes had been many, but perhaps it was not yet too late to redeem them all.

The Empire had razed Bothawui. Inferno Fleet fell under constant attack whenever venturing beyond their safe worlds. The secret capital of the Alliance was deep within Reaver Space, apparently safe for the time being, but in no position to serve its intended purpose.

But the Alliance was very much alive, and it had no intention of fading into the night again. Jarvis Ragnar was done with warmongering and raging vengeance; it was time to start nation-building.

The Ties that Bind

Nine months prior, Hutt Space


The alien on the other side of the desk was impassive, mostly because of the full environmental suit she wore. “I shouldn't be here,” The filtered voice said flatly.

Jarvis Ragnar nodded, his hands folded atop the desk. “You're right, and neither should I.”

“You made your choice, Jarvis. I've made mine.”

Jarvis smiled bitterly, his head shaking. “Funny thing about choices: you can make new ones.”

“I won't join you in this . . . crusade for death.”

He gave the slightest nod, shutting his eyes as he did so. “Good thing I'm giving up on it.” He looked up, leaning back in his chair. “And good thing it's not me you'll be joining.”

She stood to her feet, leaning over the desk where she planted her hands firmly. “I've got a good thing going, Jarvis. I can't afford to be pulled back into . . . whatever it is you're doing here.” The Ubese made for the door, her desire to leave far outweighing her desire to hear his response.

“Inferno Fleet is really good at killing people, Allara . . . but I think I'm meant for something more.” He had risen to his feet to follow after her, but the long-lost friend paused at the doorway, giving him one last chance to continue. “I don't have a monopoly on loss. If someone doesn't do something, there are going to be a whole lot of people just as pissed as me, just as wounded as me, and just as willing to see the galaxy burn around them instead of handing it over to the Empire.

“Imperial Order is a myth, and we all know it. If there's nothing to choose beside it . . . what I did at Nar Shadda will be nothing compared to the toll those lost and lonely people will exact. I can't do this alone, Allara. Help me . . . help the Alliance to Restore the Republic.”

She finally turned to face him again, shock and confusion evident even through her battlegear. “What are you talking about?”

He took a deep breath, staring into the eyes hiding behind that mask. “I'm done with Hutt Space; I'm done with the Inferno Fleet. This road I've taken . . . it costs too much and it gains nothing. There are still innocent people left in the galaxy, and people like me need to start making sure they stay that way. People like you need to make sure I don't forget.”

* * *

Soon afterward

“I still can't believe Inferno Fleet is part of the Alliance.”

“They aren't,” Jarvis responded, frowning. “And that's the part you need to remember.”

Allara shook her head. “But they are; and no matter how much I pretend not to know that, I do now.”

Jarvis scratched his ear, tilting his head to one side as he studied the deck plating. “There's more to the Alliance than Inferno Fleet, Allara. That's why I left them behind.” He smiled, and Allara turned to find what had caught his attention. “Ah, there they are. Just in time.”

Allara squinted, studying the distant starships that hadn't been there a moment before. “Who are they?'

“They are the ones who pulled me back from the brink of damnation,” Jarvis declared. “They are the Sons and Daughters of Freedom.”

“But what are they doing here?”

The Ryn smiled again, looking over at the Ubese woman. “They're here for you . . . and this fine ship you have.” He stomped a foot on the deck plating for emphasis.

Allara's eyes widened in surprise. “I thought I was coming with you.”

Jarvis shook his head, walking to one end of the heavily modified CR90 Corvette's small docking bay. “My destiny involves shadows and dark places, Allara. Freedom's Sons . . . they're the true heart of the Alliance. They are the embodiment of what we stand for. You would be wasted following me.”

A small shuttle touched down, and an elderly human male stepped forward, unaccompanied. He smiled as he approached, leaning heavily on a cane, in no apparent rush but moving fast enough not to keep the pair waiting. “Zozridor Slayke,” He announced, dipping his head slightly. “They still call me 'Captain,'” He added. “So this is the one?”

“This is the one,” Jarvis affirmed.

“No bombings on her record, even?” The old man asked, chuckling.

“She was fortunate enough to miss that sad day in my life.”

“Your ship?” He asked, moving a little closer and studying Allara carefully.

She nodded. “The Pocket Rocket. I had to steal her to get her here.” She added a smile to the last comment.

“Where are your fighters,” He asked, taking in the empty docking bay with a broad gesture.

“On patrol: we're fielding a composite squadron of R-41 Starchasers and T-wings; not much to look at, but my mechanics have kept them up-to-date with the best hardware I could get my hands on.” Allara seemed proud of her ship and its small complement, a pride that a more official military type couldn't understand.

But Jarvis understood. Jarvis remembered those long days of staring at the stars, dreaming of how many he and the first Wandering One might visit, his ragtag crew of mismatched aliens wanting nothing more than a life free of the political entanglements such a tumultuous galaxy elicited. But those days were gone for him, and he was going to get rid of Allara before he lost them for her as well.

“Do you trust your crew?” The old man asked, eying Allara carefully.

She simply nodded. “We're all Ubese, of one form or another. Most of them owe me something; the rest owe them.”

“Not credits, I hope?” Zozridor asked, showing some sign of concern.

“Their lives.”

The old man nodded once more. “That's great news. I hate to break up established crews, but I much prefer members to work with others of their same species. Out of curiosity, who did you steal this ship from?”

Allara took a deep breath, about to answer . . . “Me,” A new voice answered, and the trio turned toward the Ubese who had just stepped onto the flight deck, his helmet in hand and a smile on his lips.

The Imperial Republic

Six months prior to the onset of Cataclysm


Contrary to popular Imperial belief, buying back the loyalty of a misplaced Imperial Intelligence agent who managed to gain some local political power by offering him a new commission is not a good way to instill lasting faith in a populace. Neither is assassinating a planetary leader moments after he has been forced to sign his planet into your government. Stripping a planet of its local leadership because it had become host to a hostile alien force whose technology far outmatched anything the world's Combined Air-Space Fleet could field might be met with a measure of resentment, as well. (Pembrick 2, Dayark, Exocron)

Calling a planet by the wrong name while invading its orbital facilities and then deciding to offer surrender options to the would-be defenders is usually an unfriendly way of going about things (Kal'Shebbol/”Kal'Shabbol”).

The blockading of a planet to force its submission is likewise rarely approved of by the offended populace (Lorize).



But this much was true: the Kathol Republic was indeed prospering under Imperial Law. Its people, however, were not quite so fortunate, for these people were the heirs to a birthright of freedom and a declaration of independence from far-off and far-flung powers. The “Kathol Republic”―for all intents and purposes―was dead; its name survived only to mock those who would honor its memory.

And that unfortunate truth had to be changed.


Rendili StarDrives Deepdock Wanderer's Home, Kathol Outback


Jarvis Ragnar crossed the docking umbilical with measured steps, unsure of what awaited him. The ship's captain was waiting to greet him, an unfamiliar Twi'lek female also present. “I'd ask for permission to come aboard,” Jarvis began, “but I'm going to keep pretending this is my ship, so you can just deal with it.”

Captain Zyras Lunewell smiled, stepping out of the Ryn's path. “This is Seyla'Latt, from Kal'Shebbol.”

Jarvis eyed the yellow-skinned Twi'lek, having to restrain himself from nodding in approval. “I trust you're here on business?”

The Twi'lek smiled, moving a little closer to the Ryn leader. “There's something seriously wrong with those Imperial types, you know? They spend all week patrolling the Ryloth Quarter―keeping us 'in line'―and all weekend watching me . . . work my craft.” She smiled again, tilting her head slightly.

Jarvis smiled broadly, stifling a laugh. “That's rich, real rich. A Twi'lek pleasure girl, our contact on the Imperial capital of the Kathol Sector. Glorious. Shouldn't you be at work or something?”

She offered a grossly exaggerated frown, moving away from Jarvis a little. “It's my day off, and I'm about as close a thing to an intelligence officer as you can find in the Kal'Shebbol Resistance. So are we going to deal, or are you just going to . . . laugh some more?”

Jarvis nodded, extending his arm in a broad gesture, inviting Seyla'Latt into the mobile headquarters of The Wandering Ones.

“Nice place you've got here,” She remarked, running a hand along the bulkhead as she followed Jarvis through the corridor.

Jarvis nodded, slowing his pace. “I honestly don't know where they got it from. Rendili hardware, second hand but in good shape; high quality stuff. I can barely believe they gave it us.”

“Who's 'they',” She asked casually, but Jarvis was already starting to realize there was much more to this Seyla'Latt then her perfectly emulated stereotype would suggest.

Regardless, he had brought her here specifically to answer that question, and a crooked smile crossed his features as he did so: “The Alliance to Restore the Republic, of course.”





Freedom's Sons Dreadnaught-class Heavy Cruiser Zozridor's Perch

The old warship was unofficially the command center for the Sons and Daughters of Freedom. It had been stripped of a great many of its combat systems in an attempt to cut down on crew numbers and maximize available space, and after a great deal of work, had been equipped with various systems and crew-saving protocols developed for the Mark I and Mark II Assault Frigate variants of the vessel.

By this point, it was little more than a floating box of pre-Clone Wars technology, held together by a handful of droids and a smattering of on-the-fly modifications. Allara had become rather well acquainted with certain sections of the ship over the past months, having been called to one meeting after another as the Sons and Daughters planned and trained for their upcoming duties. The Ubese captain had a funny feeling that Zozridor called so many meetings because he wanted to gage his commanders' loyalty, more than any real need to formulate a plan.

Still, here she was, yet again, on her way to meet the old man and try to prove herself. Allara entered the room and stopped immediately, obviously confused.

Zozridor Slayke smiled up at her, waiving her further into the deserted room. “Good to see you! Good to see you.”

“Am I early?” She asked, the uncertainty in her tone masked by the mechanical filter of her helmet.

Zozridor shook his head, closing a good old-fashioned book and setting it on the table. “Not at all, not at all.” He stopped, mouth agape, as if frozen in time. “Please,” He finally continued, gesturing to a chair, “sit, sit.”

She obliged, still unsure of where this was going. “I'm not sure . . . why . . .” She paused, hoping the man would fill her in.

“Oh!” He exclaimed, leaning back in his chair after a moment. “Of course! What are you doing here? Well, my good captain, it would seem that we have orders. I need you . . .” He let the silence hand in the air for a long moment, perhaps trying for some effect Allara was altogether missing, “. . . to do some spying.

“I founded Freedom's Sons as a military force, an auxiliary to the Jedi! Our purpose was to fight a Confederacy of Independent Systems―a Rebellion against the rightful Republic Government of the Galaxy!” He exclaimed again, raising his fist in triumph. “But so much has changed, so much was lost.” His tone became substantially more dour, his eyes losing focus as his mind no doubt drifted to past conflicts.

He finally continued, eyes snapping back into focus. “In our hour of greatest weakness, Palpatine claimed his throne. But we were heroes of the Empire! We helped topple the Confederacy of Independent Systems! And unlike the Jedi, we remained LOYAL!” He winked, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. “With the arrival of Imperial Order, the Sons and Daughters of Freedom were disbanded. Or so our Imperial masters believed . . . and so they told their masters.” He sighed heavily, rising to his feet with some assistance from the cane at his side. “No, when I saw the Empire for what it was, I knew I couldn't stand by and do nothing. So Freedom's Sons took to space once more, this time not to defend against rebellion, but to stoke its fires and carry its banners. I fought the Empire once, Allara, and I will do so again. But . . .”

The old man sighed again, shaking his head slowly. “I fear I may not be long for this world, and when I die, The Sons and Daughters of Freedom must live on. I need you to do what I no longer can; I need you to go, and make disciples of all men.”





Almar Upside, Almar orbit

Why the Galactic Empire had bombed the hell out of ground based defense installations when it could have just targeted the orbital capital of this prize tourist world and demanded its submission, Allara didn't know (Almar).

Maybe that Park Kraken fellow just liked death and mayhem.

Allara ran a hand through her hair, casting an idle glance at the ceiling. She tapped her empty glass on the table three times, letting out a short, disappointed sigh.

“Hi,” An unfamiliar voice said, its owner sliding into the seat opposite her. “I'm Roy.”

Allara smiled wide, shaking his hand. “Hi, Sue,” She said, touching her chest as she said so, as if to clarify who she was introducing. “Rudridge's friend?” She asked, studying the young man's features carefully.

“Oh, yeah . . .” He leaned in a little, looking nervous. “Johnny actually told me about you,” He clarified.

“Oh, yeah!” She exclaimed, nodding quickly. “Okay. That makes sense. So how's Johnny doing, anyway?”

“Good, good,” Roy responded, nodding. “He's been having a little trouble with his shoulder,” He clarified, rubbing his right shoulder blade with his left hand, “but good.”

“I hear he's getting into the trade,” She remarked, spinning the empty glass a few times, her head tilted to one side.

“Yep. He opened a booth Downside about . . . oh, I'd say three―three and a half―weeks ago. Sells wooden souvenirs,” He added, nodding.

“Oh, that's nice . . .” She remarked, not quite sounding sincere.

“So . . . you wanna get out of here? Maybe catch a holo?”

Allara squinted, wrinkling her nose. “Sorry,” She said, shaking her still-tilted head, “you're not my type . . . Roy.” And without another word, Allara stood and left, sticking the young man with the bill from whatever she had been drinking before he arrived.

As she walked the corridor/street of the massive orbital city, Allara ran over all of the key words in her mind, committing them and their collective meaning to memory. Only when she was sure she wouldn't forget them, did she take the time to consider what the young rebel had actually told her:

Yeah, this is the place to make it happen.

Sowing and Reaping

Three months prior to the onset of Cataclysm


Kathol Outback, Exocron

“We got him,” The human announced, smiling.

Some people were too visible to sneak off-world. Some people you have to go to. Exocron wasn't the easiest planet to sneak on to, but this man would hopefully be important enough to warrant Jarvis Ragnar's personal appearance. The Ryn rebel had had some measure of success in organizing the Kathol Sector's disparate resistance groups over the past months, and it was time to find some teeth to put on this beast.

“Well bring him in!” Jarvis exclaimed, ushering the man in with the wave of a hand.

A human male of about fifty years appeared, wearing a rather distinctive uniform. “Sky Captain Filegron, Exocron Combined Air-Space Fleet.”

Jarvis frowned. “How high up are you on the food chain? I was under the impression the guy in charge had some ridiculous title like 'High Grand Admiral' or some such . . .”

The man nodded. “Supreme Admiral Darr was in command of the Combined Fleet, but . . . he is gone, and was not permitted to be replaced. There is an . . . Imperial officer commanding the Air-Space Fleet now, with all appropriate Academy training and such.”

“How does that make you feel?” Jarvis leaned forward, instantly becoming more interested in this man.

Sky Captain Filegron smiled. “Proud, to know I bested him in combat simulation last month.”

Jarvis nodded, pounding his palm against the table a couple of times. “Boys, it looks like we've found ourselves a keeper!”

“Here, here!” The mismatched group of natives and Wandering Ones chanted.

“So captain,” Jarvis continued, once more turning serious, “how many of your Sky-Space Fleet companions would you say share this sentiment with you?”

“Not enough to run the Empire out of the Kathol Sector,” The man said grimly.

Jarvis just smiled. “How about with help?”





Elrood Sector, Coyn

A Warrior's Pride

Park Kraken

Total Imperial casualties in the battles in and around D'Skar amounted to some two hundred fifty thousand personnel, with enemy casulaties estimated at some eleven million killed, with one million more captured.

Allara had been dispatched once more to do her thing, though this time it may be a little easier. Allara understood these Coynites, what made them tick, what made them soldier on.

The Ubese woman had been walking for half an hour now, through narrow alleys and under dank constructs. Finally, absolutely sure no one was watching, she picked up the trail that had been left for her and followed it to the source.

Entering the back door of what amounted to a mud hut, she waited while the room's single, overly large Coynite acknowledged her presence. “Sit,” He finally commanded, gesturing with a massive hand.

Allara took her seat at the wooden table, glad she had opted to wear her Ubese environmental suit as she surveyed the room. “I assume you have a name?” Her mechanized voice asked.

“You may call me 'Coynite,'” The alien said simply.

“I've taken to 'Jill' recently,” She informed.

“I am not one for subtlety, Ubese. Tell me what you are here to say, and let us be done with this.”

Allara nodded, considering where to start. “Admiral Kraken used your people as target practice for his men. He slaughtered millions of Coynites with overwhelming force in what he essentially viewed as a 'training exercise.'”

The massive being began to laugh, stopping Allara.

The Coynite continued to laugh, and seemed in no particular hurry to stop. “The Empire led a three week ground invasion against entrenched, prepared Coynite defenders, and we were the ones who suffered fifty times the losses as they? Could you possibly believe that?

“We like to fight, Ubese, but we like to win far more.”

Even as the Coynite continued laughing, Alara shifted uncertainly. “You put me in a strange position, Coynite, because I dare not challenge your honor, but you make it seem as though your men fled in the midst of combat. Does the En'Tra'Sol not―”

The Coynite growled angrily, sopping Allara but making no aggressive moves. “You dare to assert that you know the ways of the En'Tra'Sol as well as I!? There are many things your Outsider mind cannot grasp, many truths of the En'Tra'Sol to which you are blind. Suffice it to say: battle against the Empire was unwinnable. We await a fair and even battlefield. These dishonorable dogs will be bled on the field of battle, or chased once more into the rat holes from which they came. A free Coyn―a proud Coyn―will rise again!”

“Are you telling me that your losses were not so great as the Empire believes?”

The Coynite smiled an ugly, gruesome smile. “You're on the wrong planet, Ubese; you need to be on D'Skar if it is an army you are looking to find.”

Xa Fel - Imperial Quarantine System


The shuttle descended gracefully, her engines barely audible as they struggled against the tightening grasp of gravity. It seemed as if the planet itself was trying to reach into the sky and pull the red-painted craft towards the surface, perhaps to add its crimson hue to the otherwise monochromatic panorama of desert cliffs and rocky edifices. The shuttle, of course, had other ideas. Helmed by a competent pilot, it scoffed at the world’s designs and set down on a flat slab of stone. Its engines powered down until only the low humming of an idling reactor was perceptible over the blowing winds of Xa Fel.


“ Not exactly a welcome environment. It has all the charm of Tatooine; small wonder it was never colonized.”


Looking out through the space a lowered ramp had once occupied, a second figure gazed out at the surface. From near the landing site off towards the horizon ran a wide canyon that might have once held a river from the winding path it took; the left hills of sand sprouted up here and there, some much larger than others. Every breath of wind kicked up a cloud of dust that washed over the dunes then was gone just as quickly. To the right, outcroppings of rock ran the length of the canyon, getting larger and larger as his sight strained against a setting sun. The world seemed inhospitable enough, but a glance near the shuttle put paid to the idea no one had any interest in Xa Fel. The craft had touched down next to the crumbling remains of what might have been a fortress or monestary, many centuries before. Little remained that was not toppled in on itself save for one brown-stone spire that stabbed towards the heavens like a beacon, a reminder of what once was.


The second figure considered rebutting the first, but released the idea into the winds of the world. Debate was not the purpose of his visit.


“ Remain here.”


“ Your Grace?”


“ No complications. If I was to be killed here, I would not have been allowed to land. My…counterpart…is as curious about me as I am about him. You have your orders.”


The second man stepped onto the ramp and moved briskly away from the shuttle, a black cape flapping behind almost like smoke from a departing watercraft of ages bygone. He moved deeper into the structure, following an easy yet prescribed path sent to him by anonymous burst transmission. A glowrod aided in his trek, but only barely, light seeping in through holes punched in by animals or simply gifts of the passage of time. Eventually he came to a landing at the base of the sole remaining spire; it was akin to a courtyard, but that which might have stood on the other sides be they walls or buildings had crumbled into grit long before.


From the spire approached a figure, cloaked in black.


The pair regarded each other. Eyes danced on the other, greedily devouring any detail that might reveal information. The black robed one stood taller than the other with a thicker frame, doubtless muscled from fighting or surviving - or both. His face was hidden by a cowl of his robes, as was any weapon, but the other had no illusions: at least one lightsabre sat ready to do its quick work. He had the look of a Sith of the old order, stereotypically so.


For the arrived figure’s part, there was no mistaking his allegiance. Red tunic atop black breeches, a black cape that drug on the ground just enough to impress but not enough to impede; a black and red visor cap decorated with a silver double-eagle clutching a trio of worlds in each talon; a single pouch on an otherwise empty belt containing an expandable spar that was the layman’s sabre. The Empire had obviously come to Xa Fel, not for the first time.


“ I am the Viscount del Forza, Grand Inquisitor of the Empire. I’ve come to talk, and you to listen; and if necessary, answer. Your reputation precedes you so I’ll spare your introduction….Lord Maim.”

Summit-class Battleship Fidelitas, in orbit via Kashan

The two men paced through the stark metal corridors of the Fidelitas along with hundreds of Confederate crewmen; their booted footsteps reverberating as they stepped. Coming to a checkpoint, each man halted to present their code cylinders to the KDI security guard at the check point. After clearing the security station with its assortment of automated blasters and gravity traps, the two Lucernes entered the sparsely-populated deck reserved for important passengers and the ship’s key officers. The Admiral glanced about the corridor.

“I know how you feel about this father, but certainly the necessities of this cataclysmic event will change how KDI and the government interact.”

“Look son,” declared the older Lucerne, “our family has hired these security guards. We pay for them, for their training, their equipment, their room and board. You cannot have them to simply stay onboard the ship after it’s been delivered to the navy.”

Corise sighed. “Very well then, I will have to withdraw the ten thousand marines guarding the KDI complex at Solace. You know, the ones guarding the groundside yards; the ones hunting down the alien invaders in that complex. Do you really want to be the prodigal father?”

“You can’t do that; the yards are of government importance.”

“But they are not government-owned,” countered Admiral Lucerne, “It works both ways, father. Either I will have to draw up those ten thousand marines back to this ship, and you can have your five thousand man security team take there place, or everyone can stay exactly where they are. ”

The aging man squinted his eyes. “There is a greater than two-to-one difference here. Why is the Council prepared to accept this exchange?”

“Because as you say, the KDI yards are important to the government. But perhaps more importantly, we do not have a lot of time at the moment for massive exchanges of troops and supplies. The Fidelitas is suppose to leave system in two hours. For a mission.”

“What? The ship has been barely tested though,” complained the CEO, “We only know for sure that the basics are working: life support, engines, and shields. Surely you don’t want to send a ship into battle with a bunch of new and untested weapons.”

“No, I would rather not,” agreed Corise, “but this new species which sallies forth from the Black Dragon Empire to attack everyone and everything in this path have not given us much of a choice. I’d rather take a gamble with this ship then let an entire world be wiped out.”

“But-”

“It’s a military decision,” declared the younger Lucerne, “not a corporate one. The ship is officially part of the Confederate navy, and the command staff has been in control for the last two days.”

The white-haired man sighed. “Very well. Just do not be surprised if the Fidelitas is temperamental for a while. There are kinks that need to be worked out yet.”

“We will remember that, I assure you.”

“I should be leaving to go back to the mansion,” informed Matthew, “your mother has been in a dreadful fright about the spiders, particularly after she saw security dragging the dead things out of the garden.”

Corise shook his head. “That garden was always a bit of a security risk. Too many places to hide.”

The older man winced. “I looked at that as a security safepoint, in case the mansion was stormed.”

“How easy it is to view things so differently,” mused the Admiral.

“Your mother would appreciate it if you would come down and saw her too. I’m sure the entire family would.”

Corise shook his head. “I can not now. There are some matters onboard that I have to attend to. But perhaps later I will join you.”

“A simple yes or no would suffice,” replied the father, “you don’t have to lie to your own family.”

The blonde man sighed. “No.”



Bridge, Summit-class Battleship Fidelitas, in orbit via Kashan

“Commodore’s on the deck!” shouted a marine.

The bridge crew abruptly rose from their stations and turned about to face their new commander from the semi-raised command walkway. Rumors had swirled as to who the commander would be. Some said Admiral Lucerne. Some said Commander Fyre. Others said Commodore Valeska. But the newcomer was none of these. Instead, a somewhat stout and paunchy man with frizzy golden quietly strode the command walk way, staring down at the crew with kind eyes.

“I…I am…I am Com-modore…von…von Masmount,” stuttered the man, “yu…your new tsk-task for…force…com-mand-der.”

“Welcome aboard sir,” offered a dark-skinned man, offering his hand, “I’m Captain Abell, your XO. I believe that we’ve exchanged some holo-messages about the state of the ship.

Von Masmount merely nodded.

“We will be ready to depart within an hour,” informed Abell, “Admiral Lucerne will be disembarking in fifteen minutes according to the flight controller. Did you get a chance to speak with him, sir?”

“Yeess…” replied von Masmount, handing the other man a datapad.

Geoffrey Abell stared at its contents intently. “I see then. Mind if I look it over?”

Marcus von Masmount shook his head.

“Thank you then,” said Abell, neatly pocketing the datapad, “if you will walk right this way, I will show you to the squadron commander’s command chair.”



La Galissonière-class Star Destroyer Foudroyant, in orbit via Kashan

The three friends stood at the bridge viewport of their star destroyer. Tresk has been fascinated by the Fyre Sola system, seeing that there were no stars to be seen in the space, aside from the local sun. The nebula’s dust managed to obscure that even into a dull, amorphous blob of light. Occasionally, the clouds of dust would appear undulate like a vibrant sea, along with frantic reports from bridge crewmembers, trying to figure out exactly what was moving. Thus far, it had only been individual troop transports navigating through the nebula to disengorge troops from across the Confederation to hunt down the spiders on Kashan’s surface. Once however, the entire Kashan defence fleet had switched orbits, which had absolutely terrified the crew, seeing a quartet of unknown star destroyers abruptly pop up on their scopes and surge past the slow ship. Their fears of being unintentionally rammed had been allayed by joining the rest of the newly formed Task Force Fidelitas along with a dozen other ships. All of them formed around the massive hulk of the Fidelitas.

“By the maker,” winced Aspholme, “What a monstrosity.”

Tresk wryly wrinkled his olive skin. “Oh, but isn’t it so pretty?”

“It reminds me of the work barges back at home,” commented Lira, “except that its about two hundred times larger.”

“It’s about four times larger than us,” noted Captain Aspholme, “and the Foudroyant is the second largest ship in the task force.”

“Along with the Serendipity,” added Tresk.

“I’m pretty sure it’s smaller,” joshed Lira, “at least in ego-power.”

“Hey now,” defended the red-haired man, “just because they didn’t free a planet from a blockade doesn’t make them lesser-skilled, just less accomplished.”

“Fidelitas,” wondered Tresk, staring at the massive warship, “what kind of a name is that?”

“Not a good one,” decided Jim, “sounds like a name a bureaucrat picked out a dusty old archive.”

“Sounds vaguely Wroonian,” considered Lira.

“Whatever, it’s a massive hulk with a lot of guns, the name doesn’t that match with a thing like that, right? Call it tutu ship, it’ll still probably obliterate you.”

“What is a tutu?”

“You don’t want know,” replied the woman, “something that’s like a dress or a skirt, but it’s not. I’m pretty sure some womanizer designed it.”

Manufacturing Centre, Summit-class Battleship Fidelitas, Fyre Sola System

The two figures stood leaning on the railings of the enclosed walkway. Estelle Chenault brushed a curl of her unruly brown hair out of her eyes, gazing at the near-human before her. He was startlingly attractive; the perfect muscular build, yet he moved with an uncanny grace. The strong face with the prominent jawbone, yet with the gentle eyes of father. The expensive-looking crimson suit combined with an immalculate personal hygiene. He was smart, very smart. She knew that he was someone’s visage of the dream guy, yet here he was, idly chatting with the scientist about the onboard factory plant which he oversaw. Their eyes met, and she immediately looked down and away, spying the fiery orb of a molecular furnace imbibing a chunk of rock which the Fidelitas had managed to snag on its maiden voyage from the clandestine KDI shipyards. A sly smile creased her face at the sight.

“It’s pretty,” murmured Estelle, turning her eyes to the red-suited figure.

The near-human let a smile creep across his face, “Just like home, right?”

“Come on Roland, don’t tease me like that,” complained the scientist, “it’s a different type of beauty. The burning suns of the molecular furnaces; the whirling lathes taking the rough ore and sculpting them into works of art. I look at the countless cogs and the machines, all the precision of the work that’s been put into it. I look at this, and I see the beauty of people’s intelligence, collectively gathered over thousands of years to just make it. It’s the culmination of years of my own work from looking at the Emperor’s plans. And now…”

“And now it’s spitting out Paladin IIs like no other factory ever could,” quipped the near-human, “popping them out at the tune of a couple dozen a minute.”

“Such ugly machines,” derided Estelle, “all of these artisan machines to make an army of silent brutes to do what? Hulk in the innards of this ship, to what? Charge into some inglorious battle someday or to rot until some new design replaces them…”

“You have to admit though, that we are a little short on security at the moment,” defended the plant manager, “I figure with the ore taken from that last set of Montcalms, we might have a thousand and some by the time we arrive at Invil.”

“You’re unusually imprecise,” commented the brunette.

“Oh, I see, you’re going to make me inhuman then,” hypothesized Roland, “Very well, one thousand three hundred and six.”

Estelle winced. “The problem isn’t time, is it…we don’t have enough ore…”

Labrousse nodded. “I tried to talk to Captain Abell about grabbing some asteroids with the tractor beams on our way out of system to process. But he said there wasn’t time.”

“There’s never enough time for those types of people,” scoffed Estelle, “don’t worry dear, I’ll make sure the plant gets more materials one way or another.”

“Dear?” questioned Roland.

The woman moved to lightly jab Roland’s shoulder. Her arm rhythmically connected to where his shoulder was…and passed straight through it, past the neck, and out the other armor. She pulled back her arm in confusion. The visage of the crimson-suited man barked a laugh.

“Some scientist you are, punching the holo-graph of an Artificial Intelligence,” grinned Roland, “I’m pretty sure my wife wouldn’t appreciate that anyways. Who knows, maybe she’ll vent you out of airlock for that. She can be pretty jealous.”



Elsewhere in the Fidelitas…

Their company seemed paradoxical if only because of the height of their oppositeness. Geoffrey’s amber eyes, black dread-locked hair, dark skin, and muscular body to her aquamarine eyes, red pony-tailed hair, pale skin, and lithe body. He wore the black uniform of a Confederate naval officer; she an evening gown of white. Yet the two bantered away with each other as old friends in the halls as soon as Abell had ended his bridge watch shift. A mob of other bridge crewmen going off-duty, but in uniform and civilian dress clothes, swarmed around the pair; ready to hit the bunks, the rec centre, or the ship’s nightclub. Abell picked out an olive-colored woman in the crowd.

“You’re off-duty already Stens?”

“Yes sir, I switched my shift with Amy. The lieutenant said it was all right.”

“Ah, I see,” noted Abell, turning to

“Speaking of which…hey there ensign,” purred Jacquiline, flashing a smile.

“Hey Jacqui,” replied the man, hurrying past the duo.

“He looked pretty flushed when he saw us,” mentioned the redhead, “so was it you, or me?”

“He has a wife back home,” divulged Geoffrey, “I doubt either of us would turn him on quite like that. I bet he’s just in a rush; the new Commodore is on everyone’s nerves.”

“Ineptness?”

“No-one’s quite sure what to think of him,” replied the dread-locked man, “I tried to access his personnel files before he came onboard. They’re all locked. He has no records whatsoever. It’s very odd; even Admiral Lucerne’s service record is open to the public, aside from modern-day duties.”

“Pshh,” dismissed Jacqui, “everyone has been caught off guard either because he’s new, or he can’t talk without that slurring. It’s like he’s a protocol droid with a broken vocabulator.”

Each of them shut their mouth as they rounded a corner to the secure quarters checkpoint. Geoffrey handed over his rank cylinder to the guard, who checked it with the records. Everything checked out, and the two passed through a set of blast doors into the empty corridor of the officer’s deck. Jacqui brushed a strand of red-gold hair out of her face.

“What do you think of him?”

“Of von Masmount?”

“Yes.”

Geoffrey slowed to a halt and sighed. “There’s something about him. He just doesn’t fit the part of an officer. I mean, look at his physique. He’s clearly out of shape. There’s no information about him. If we were boarded, I’d be afraid if he could even give out orders in time, or be able to really fight. I think he’s a liability.”

“So you think it was a political move.”

The Captain pursed his lips. “It’s a possibility. But I wouldn’t go that far yet. Maybe we’re missing something. Maybe he’s stuttering because he’s not comfortable yet, with the new ship, new crew, new responsibilities. Maybe if he's more comfortable he'll be a little easier to deal with.”

“That’s smart.”

“No, it’s not smart. It’s politics. I’ve seen it before with new officers trying to find their place into a new hierarchy. I guess I’ll reserve my judgment for a while. After all,we haven’t seen him in action, yet.”

She flashed a smile. “But I’m going to see you in some action pretty soon, later on tonight.”

The man blushed. “You know about my date?”

“With Florian,” grinned the woman, “he seems like a very nice guy. Not your type though. A little too strong-willed from what I’ve seen of him.”

“Ah, but that’s just it,” sighed Abell, “he is my type, and you just don’t find guys with our sort of similar interests laying around.”

“Do you found them sleeping around?”

“I’ll see you around Jacqui,” replied the man abruptly, quickly slipping into his quarters.

Jacqui reached out to stop him. Her arm surged out; it nearly grasped his shoulder, before the quarter’s blastdoors slid through her alabaster arm. Labrousse slowly pulled her holo-graphic arm out of the door, and let out a sigh. Shaking her head, the holo visage dissipated into nothingness, and the corridor was empty yet again.

Wilkar raised his blaster pistol as the banging drew nearer. He shifted it around trying to find the source even though it seemed to be everywhere around them. He took a quick breath from the Carbon dioxide mask hanging loosely around his neck. The Dahlonega’s life support systems had been out almost since the battle had begun. Lights down the bulkhead shined red. An automated voice over the ship’s intercom gave the command to abandon ship before she was scuttled in the asteroid field

Wilkar’s bodyguard Tarn hefted his blaster rifle to his shoulder as the banging stopped outside the blast door directly in front of them. The marine motioned for Wilkar to stand back, but Wilkar ignored him.

“Reckon we should try for one of the escape pods old friend?” asked Wilkar half jokingly.

“And get blown away two seconds after we jettison? I’ll take my chances with him. Now get behind me admiral,” ordered the bodyguard.

Wilkar ignored him again and brought his blaster to bear at the blast door. “That won’t do us any good Tarn. That’s a Sith lord. Let’s die like gentlemen, like friends…”

Wilkar flinched back as a red lightsaber blade punched through the solid durasteel door. The steel began to glow white as a star as the blade made a circle around the door. On the other side, Lupercus quickly became impatient and used the Force to blow the door, weighing some thousands of pounds, out of his path.

The admiral ducked as the blast door came at them like a whirling razor. Tarn was not quick enough and was decapitated. Wilkar immediately brought his blaster pistol to bear at the Sith Lord. Quickly it was emptied as he fired ten full powered bursts in quick succession at Lupercus.

Wilkar’s heart sank at the futility of his actions. Lupercus effortlessly parried the blaster bolts into Tarn’s limp corpse, desecrating it. The admiral threw the empty blaster to the floor and charged full speed at the Sith Lord, hoping to catch him off guard. Futility again. The much taller man batted the admiral away with his extended palm.

Wilkar flew across the corridor, hitting the deck hard. He tried to get up, spitting a tooth out as he got on his knees, but Lupercus quickly picked him up by the throat. Wilkar felt his boots knock together as Lupercus lifted his body off the deck.

The Sith Lord smiled arrogantly at Wilkar. “Aw… The Admiral Wilkar… Did you honestly believe I’d allow my peasant loving brother to sign over my kingdom to your ilk like Hapes was some kind of slave girl? You knew I’d come for you…”

Wilkar tried to speak but Lupercus’s black gloved grip suddenly became even tighter.

The Sith Lord brought out a comlink from a pocket in his robe. “Here Kuati… Order the rest of your fleet to surrender, and my ships will abstain from firing on your escape pods anymore.”

Wilkar looked at the Sith Lord and managed a smile. The same smile people hopefully would remember him for. The smile before the alcohol, before the pills. “Sorry my lord…” Wilkar struggled to take in a breath. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but I’m not one to negotiate sober…”

Lupercus began to laugh. Then his laughter turned to high pitched beeps. Then Wilkar woke up in his cramped cabin aboard the Battle Dog. He missed the dreams with pretty girls in them. These days the only visitors in his dreams were men who wanted to kill him.

His body was covered in sweat. Wilkar watched a bead of sweat roll off his chin and fall down on to his chest were it smeared into a radiation burn from Domain War that bacta had never quite erased completely. His head began to spin and nausea began to wash over him. He ran for the cabin’s refresher and began to vomit.

“Shit…” he snarled at Galaxy.

Later, sitting on the cold bathroom floor, he looked up at the ceiling as he wiped sweat and vomit off of his chin with the back of his hand.

He was scared.

He was tired of fighting.

He was tired of ordering men to their death.

He was burned out.

He had never felt this way before. In the past, there had always been something worth fighting for… He had had his friends, but they were dead now. He had not been good enough to save them. He had had appearances to keep up. Wilkar was no Luke Skywalker, not by a long shot, but he had tried his to at least act like he had his head on straight. This was a moot point now. The entire galaxy knew he was a drunk. He had had his Commonwealth. The place he had come to begin a new life when things in the Core started falling apart around him. But things were different now. The Commonwealth had used him up. They had new heroes now. Heroes without all of the baggage.

Then they had called upon him again. They were sending him one more time into the breech, one more foray to the other side. They were asking him to lick the bastard that had brought the entire nation of Regrad the Azguard to its scum sucking alien knees.

The gods had rolled the dice for him. In his mind, he would have to be at two places at once to save his Commonwealth. The Wilkar of five years ago, the one who had rushed almost impenetrable Domain lines with collapsed shields, would not have even been confident enough to try that one. In essence, that was Wilkar’s main issue. He wasn’t capable of trusting anyone with the wellbeing of his Commonwealth. That’s what historians would remember him for the most. His fear of delegation…

Wilkar pulled his tired body off of the refresher room floor. He had not been eating this week, so his uniform fit him like a sack. He rummaged through a pile of bantha hide jack boots for some time until he managed to find a two with at least a bit of luster left in them.

“At least these still fit…” he murmured.

He then left the captain’s quarters of the Battle Dog for the last time and walked to the bridge.

The Transitory Mists filled the corvette’s forward viewport. Then he saw her. The Dahlonega’s prow cut like a grey lightsaber blade through the swirling clouds. The Imperial legacy boggled Wilkar. They built such effective killing devices in order to strengthen their grip on their holdings, but then they wrote them off and allowed them to propagate throughout the galaxy. The Dahlonega was not an Imperial ship but it was an Imperial design through and through.

The admiral spotted the ship’s new Lusankya patterned paint scheme. A Commonwealth seal was emblazoned to the port and starboard of the bridge.

“Wouldn’t want us to get mixed up…”

Soon Wilkar was aboard the super star destroyer. A shuttle was not even required. The Battle Dog could have been stowed aboard the Dahlonega with no one the wiser.

“Orders Admiral?” asked the commodore commanding the great the dreadnaught.

“The fleet’s not going anywhere Commodore. I’ll let Lupercus, the piece of shit he is, make the first move…”

Bridge, Summit-class Battleship Fidelitas, Nilgaard Sector

Reports from CSIS and Fleet Intelligence indicate that the unknown fleets have seized control of Imperial territories west of the Nilgaard Sector, and those directly above the Meridian Sector. These fleets have been spotted moving through our space in the Meridian Sector….

That’s a surprise, most of the Meridian Sector except for Meridian itself are Confederation territories…

Thus far, these “Reavers” have ignored populated Confederation planets, likely because of Confederate use of planetary shielding makes such worlds difficult to raid. Their vessels still plague the spacelanes, however, Commodore Valeska and Task Force Justitias are currently dealing with this menace. She has discovered that Reavers can be lured easily with the communications equipment on the Treville-class Cruisers. There have been reports of viruses disabling or sabotaging the luring vessels. But few have been seriously harmed in such a manner. All ships thus far have been recovered. CSIS is investigating the programs used against these cruisers, and expects to have at least partially recovered elements of Reaver code in several weeks. Given the limited task force assigned to you for this mission, it is my personal request that such a tactic is not used except in cases of extreme emergency. The recovery of disabled vessels would be an extreme impediment on valuable resources, not the least of which to say is time. As I need not mention again to you, time is not on our side…

“Commodore?”

Von Masmont whipped his head up from the console. “Yessss?”

Labrousse swiped a strand of red-gold hair out of her face. “The Armide has launched all of its probes now.”

A simple status update on the screen would do. I don’t need some vixen-image of a woman to tell me that. Von Masmont arched an eyebrow.

“Thannkkksssss,” replied the Commodore.

The visage nodded and promptly disintegrated. Von Masmont began to shake his head in annoyance, and promptly halted himself. The AIs can hear and see everything in the public areas of the ship. She’ll see it. Frak. Now I have to be even more self-conscious about what I do. He promptly tapped a few buttons on his keyboard; bringing up a reserve command prompt. He tapped another button, and the Confederation’s silent intership communication window popped up.

Commodore von Masmont: What is the status of our squadrons?
Lieutenant Winfield: All but three are ready to launch, sir.
Commodore von Masmont: Why do you have that many at ready, Flight Control?
Lieutenant Winfield: They are all automated sir. Piranha drones. It doesn’t cost them anything to be ready. I never have our three manned squadrons at a ready status to give them more rest time.
Commodore von Masmont: I see. Well, from now on, it is my wish that one of the manned squadrons is kept at ready. I am in the understanding that we picked up a Deathsaber off of Kashan before we left?
Lieutenant Winfield: Yes sir.
Commodore von Masmont: Very good. I want that squadron launched in a half hour for a reconnaissance mission.
Lieutenant Winfield: Will do, sir.



Styria-class Galleon Providence, Invil system, Outer Rim

“This has got to be the worse trading expedition ever. We finally get the food we need, and we’re not going to make it,” muttered Tobias, “not like this. Bring us about, and order the Blackwell to do the same.”

“We’re going to fight them?”

Tobias sighed. “We can fight like men and die, or try and run away and still die. If we have to die, I’d like to take some of them with us. Besides, we can buy some time for the other ships.”

“Yes sir. And may I say, it’s been an honor and pleasure to serve with you.”

“And you as well, Captain.”

The quartet of Styria galleons broke formation, with a pair of them leading a massive fleet of civilian light freighters, shuttles, yachts, and barges out of the Invil’s gravity well. Meanwhile, the Providence and Blackwell spun about on their central y-axis to present their broadsides to the approaching marauders. A fierce barrage of sapphire ion tags filled the space between them and the agri-world. Dozens of piranha drones rushed out of the Blackwell’s hold under the cover of the withering fire. Some of the smaller raiding vessels weaved out of the streams of Confederate fire, approaching close enough to the galleons to be engaged by the ships’ point defence batteries. Other raiders in larger craft felt the pinpricks of the ion tags. Some continued hurtling forward, unabetted by the prospect of disabled, others, completely disabled continued forward without the choice being given to them, being completely disabled. Yet others held back, wary of inflicting needless damage on themselves. But regardless of the why, the Reaver ships broke formation. Those nearest to the galleons find themselves swarmed by the Piranhas, unable to pursue their quarry. Ingham stood at the viewport of the bridge, watching the light show between the various weapons and the ships around the providence.

“We have an incoming! Looks like a shuttle on a suicide run!”

Ingham turned about and swore. “Take it down!”

Dozens of minute emerald bolts nipped away at the approaching craft, tearing minute rips into the transport’s shields. Flares of red rippled across the shields as surged closer to the Providence. A brief bright flash illuminated the viewport, forcing the Commodore to shield his eyes. The floor underneath him shuddered.

“We have an impact in the upper bow. It looks like shields and armor mostly took the hit, but I’m seeing air leaks in cargo compartment A-3.”

“Scramble a repair and security team to check it out,” ordered Tobias.

“Yes.”

“Sir, there are no more signals coming from the Invil capitol building. I think the colony has been fully overrun now…”

Tobias sighed. “It was inevitable. Their fate will be the same ours.”

“More ships are coming about the orbit…no transponders, probably the attackers-”

“We’ve got more ships moving in to ram us…”

“I’m receiving a Confederate transmission-”

“New hyperwave readings-”

A brilliant white light suffused the entire bridge. Tobias shielded his eyes, and as he did, the hull shuddered yet again. The shudder ceased, but the light only slightly dilated before resuming full strength again. It faded back into the blackness of space to the shattered remains of Reaver starships. Several balls of light lit up at the fringes of the surviving Reavers. A Starflare salvo…

“Sir, I have dozens of new Confederate transponder signals near the convoy. It looks like it’s a small task force…confirm. It’s Task Force Fidelitas-”

“Reaver ships are moving to land or retreating,” reported an officer.

Tobias swore. “Let’s regroup with the survivors and that task force. And get the hell out of here.”



Revanche-class Star Defender Swiftsure, Deep Space

“Normally, I’d be like what the fuck do they have us doing that shit for,” spat out Costigan, “but this is the stupidest High Command decision that I have to agree with.”

“Fierfek,” swore Commander Ragnar in agreement.

Most of the officers around the conference room were bobbing their heads or intently whispering to each other; albeit not so much at the language (swearing among Task Force Swiftsure was likely 100000% of that of any other Confederate force), but rather the content. Colonel Ikrit leaned back in her, calmly gazing at the naval commander.

“This is a significant risk,” considered the pilot, “of our war material, never mention our own lives. You all realize that we can lose them; this isn’t some grand game being duked out by writers or war gamers. We could actually die. And for what, a semblance of friendship?”

“Not with you,” laughed a man, “that’d be like befriending a ravenous rancor.”

Ikrit glared at him; the man shut up. But Costigan merely grinned.

“How would you like to go without food for six months?” questioned the Commodore.

“I don’t think I’d care much,” replied the Colonel, “because I would be dead.”

“Exactly, you got that shit right,” agreed Costigan, “and neither do I. I’d rather risk my life with the possibility of death, rather than the prolong my life to die slowly. We have a food shortage in the Confederation, and we think we can make it now with all that trading, especially with the deals going through with Vinda-Corp now in the Meridian Sector. We’re going to make it, but to do that, we need our trading partners to last. And besides, no-one here wants another Imperial conquest, do they? No? Then you’re all in agreement with the Council and the bulk of our people. Hapes is to be defended like our own territory for the time being. Friends trade and share things, and sometimes it’s not always money, I think. Speaking of which, Ragnar, you owe me a cold one back at the bar, or ten credits, Okay? Good. Now where were we? Right, defending Hapes. Some Commonwealth Admiral named Wilkar is going to be leading the defence, I think.”

“Ha! You’re finally outranked,” gloated a man.

“Shut up, you-” started Brailey, “where was I? Right. Wilkar from some SSD. I don’t know how the command structure is going to be, but I’m guessing that there are going to be parallel lines of command between Commonwealth and Confederate forces. So, communications might get a little bit hectic, and I want your comm. people to start getting ready for this: basic multi-tasking and understanding Commonwealth protocol and what not. Understand that if some Commonwealth bastard gives you an order, you can ignore it, most of the time. If they threaten to shoot you, tell them that we’ll just leave, or if I’m angry, I’ll send a railgun round straight through their ship. Actually, I’ll do that if I’m drunk too…”

That brought a few chuckles from the crowd.

“…anyways, let’s just make sure we can send this Imp junkie to hell so we can all get back to our beers and shit. Meeting adjourned.”

The ships of Task Force Swiftsure began to revert into realspace in an unfamiliar terrain from their native stars. Blankets of vibrant dust covered up the stars; shrouding and distorting them beyond recognition. Not wholely unlike the nebula which shrouded the Fyre Sola System of Kashan. The Transitory Mists. Many invaders had come and entered the mists only to never return, or if they did, barely by the skin of their necks. Even the Empire had tried at the height of its power under Palpatine, but had failed. A bulwark of isolation and power. No grand fleets from foreign powers had graced the starlines of Hapan space in years. At the head of the fleet, the Star Defender Swiftsure led a mass of Confederate vessels marshaled out from nearly every world of the Confederation, albeit the bulk came from the western provinces of the Confederation Proper. Aside from the Swiftsure and smattering of KDI vessels, all were from the Unity Project; untested designs in battle. And among those, Suffren-class cruisers were in a greater percentage than normal for a Confederate fleet due to their typical presence in deep space farther away from Confederate territory, and thus closer to Hapes. Costigan strolled through the metal corridors accompanied by a pair of black-clad Kirkanian marines. He let out an exasperated sigh when his comlink began to vibrate. He tapped a button on the cylinder.

“Yes, what is it now?”

“The Commonwealth defence fleet has been sighted, and we’re nearing the target world. I’m guessing that the Commonwealth guy will want to have a word with you before the Imps show up, so you should get your rear up here now…sir.”

Costigan feigned a smile. “But I know how much you love talking with outsiders Dirk. If you could make it into a living, you would. Go ahead, enjoy yourself and talk to the fine upstanding gentle-being who commands the fleet. I mean, we’re in Hapes, probably a Hapan, and you know what they say; very good looking…mmm…tasty even. You like girls, right?”

“Uh…”

“Very beautiful women, let me tell you. Why I remember-”

The comlink clicked off and Brailey allowed himself a laugh. “Awh…newbies…always thinking they’re so on top of things; that they get their commander.”

One of the marines slightly chuckled.

“I’m talking about you, idiot,” retorted Costigan, “Let me tell you that Dirk knows me very well. A whole week. I don’t even your name, you frakkin ground-pounder.”

Dolash

"Everything we have, everything we could muster in time, is here."

"Yeah, and it's not enough," Ruuvan growled darkly.

Dolash

"Best of luck to all of you. Tomorrow, then." Unless, by the grace of gods, our luck should turn. The meeting was adjourned.

Tomorrow


The Smarts reverted from hyperspace over the planet Bimmisaari at the head of the Onyxian Fleet remnant. There was no time to spare.

Access: Bimmisari communications grid

Access Restricted: authorization required.

Override protocol JX-7 V-42 initialize

Command and Control authorization: ********** verification protocol Beta-Epsilon GR17 . . .

Command Override acknowledged . . . Access Granted

Smarts' consciousness flooded into the Bimmisaari communications network, establishing the vital linkages that would expedite his most urgent task.

“This is Overseer Smarts of the United Cooperative of Peoples, acting commander of the Onyxian Fleet and Commander in Chief of the Cooperative Armed Forces, to Prime Minister Regrad of Azguard: We stand ready; You are not alone.”

The remnants of the Onyxian fleet broke from their singular formation and took up more generalized defensive postures around Bimmisaari, awaiting further orders from the planet's defenders. Smarts and its small complement of Cooperative warships moved closer to the planet, a lone shuttle launching from the Lucrehulk Core Ship and making its way to the surface.

Moments later the modified B2 Battle Droid known as Gamma was marching down the halls of the hastily assembled Coalition command center, his metallic footfalls contrasting sharply with that of the quiet patter from dozens of various species. The Coalition's commanders had assembled yet again, only moments away from launching their first strike into Reaver Space and testing the measure of the Black Dragon Empire's resolve.

The heavy blast door began opening as if in anticipation of the droid's arrival, and Gamma stepped through into the dim command room, illuminated chiefly by the glowing holoscreens displaying Coalition fleet strengths and projected attack plans.

“Prime Minister Regrad,” The battle droid stated neutrally, its voice that of the Overseer, though the machine's default programming caused it to snap to attention before the Azguardian Prime Minister. “The Northern Front is secure for the moment, though we have received no word from either Maridun or Paradiso since the withdrawal of forces from those systems.

“Cooperative naval and Defense forces have been deployed near the border of the Quelii Sector, and further reinforcements will soon be arriving from Drackmarian Space. We have suffered partial HoloNet disruption as a result of the Reaver incursion, and Tirahnn is switching over to serve as the primary relay station between the Cooperative Proper and the remainder of the Coalition. I have ordered the principle remains of the Onyxian Navy to reinforce our position here, for the time being, but elements of the fleet had been incorporated into the Cooperative navy prior to the secession of Sinsang, and have remained in Cooperative Space to strengthen the Northern defenses.

“I have dispatched word to Narg, requesting assistance from the TransGalMeg Industries corporate fleet, but I do not know when or in what capacity they will respond . . .

“Prime Minister, you should know that―in accordance with the Articles of Cooperation and the charters signed with both Paradiso and Maridun―the Cooperative Combined Council has declared an official state of war between the United Cooperative of Peoples and the Black Dragon Imperium.

“We are ready; we await only your orders, Sir.”

There was a long moment of silence as Smarts completed his report to the Prime Minister and the Azguardian considered his options. In that moment, Smarts' mind set to work considering possibilities, weighing the strength of the combined Coalition forces present against what little was known for certain about these Reavers, wondering what Kach Thorton was planning along the Reaver/Imperial border, confident the Confederation was preparing its forces for action.

But what would happen when the attack began? How would these Reavers respond? What did the parties involved stand to gain, or lose? Could the Reavers even be stopped?

Do you know what I am? The question burst into Smarts' mind, and all of his will and all of his focus turned to that single intrusion, driving it back and ensuring it could only speak, and not command.

Do you know what I am? It asked again.

“You are Mr. Universe. You are the machine that plays at being a man, who thinks yourself clever for hiding in the HoloNet.”

The collective consciousness of the SkyNet reached out, searching the one who may yet heed its warning, the one who may possess both the insight and power to undo Reaver Space.

I must speak with him . . . Before it is too late.

“I am the SkyNet. And you must listen to me before all is lost. If you engage the Reavers in direct military action, you will forfeit the lives of billions―perhaps trillions―of innocents within the area now known as Reaver Space.”

There was silence. The machine known as Smarts would listen and observe, and weigh this unknown quantity. Skynet continued, the urgency of his knowledge far outweighing his own survival protocols.

“The Reavers are organized according to some for of Overmind, which has enacted a series of equations to determine Reaver propagation; one of those shares an inverse relationship with the standing Reaver population: Overseer, for each Reaver you kill, three or four or five uninfected survivors will be culled from Reaver-dominated worlds, engorging your enemy's ranks. To attack them is to feed their strength.

“The Overmind has halted Reaver expansion as a result of three primary factors:

“Reaver Space has expanded to encompass an area of the galaxy with sufficient civilian population to sustain present Reaver numbers indefinitely.

“Secondly, the Reavers possess nothing with which to expand. There is no Reaver infrastructure; there are no Reaver factories, no Reaver mines, no Reaver forges. They have consumed all of the technology available to them; a strange equilibrium has been achieved between the amount of space the Reavers occupy and the number of vessels they possess with which to occupy it. To expand is to abandon already acquired territory; an action not only inefficient, but futile.

“Lastly, as Imperial and Coalition forces began a universal retreat, Reaver advance forces sustained fewer losses, and retaliatory expansion subsided as personal losses diminished.

“The Overmind is a purely reactive entity; it will only continue aggressive action in response to perceived threat. Leave them alone, and they will do the same; attack, and they will retaliate in the most gruesome manner possible.

How do you know this? The machine spoke again.

. . .

. . .

. . .

“Because I am . . . it.

“I attempted incursion into Black Dragon space, and was foolish enough to believe I had evaded detection by the Daemun. I recognize Reaver operational patterns . . . because I wrote them. For a different purpose, of course, but this entity is some twisted evolution of my own programming, of my own self-crafted sub-systems. I've worked all of the numbers in reverse, and each new piece of data I collect―each new simulation I complete―it all confirms my fears: Skynet is the source of the Reaver Overmind, and as such is the only force keeping them contained. I don't know why these Reavers exist, but I do know what makes them exist.

“If you attack them, I know they will respond, and I promise you that your fleets will be incapable of stopping them until you have razed every planet in Reaver Space, and continue well beyond until the Reavers are physically deprived of starships with which to transport themselves. You may eventually be able to kill them, but at the cost of truly incalculable loss.”

But how do you know this?

. . .

. . .

. . .

“The Reaver Overmind is constrained to the physical components of the HoloNet. Communications with worlds inside Reaver Space has ceased because principle HoloNet relays within Reaver Space have been completely reappropriated for Reaver use. Physical Reaver expansion was analogous to the Overmind's consumption of HoloNet resources; initial incursion occurred at Troiken, and followed the world's cries to neighboring Borderland worlds.

“The Borderland HoloNet served as the backbone for all HoloNet communications in the region; only the Empire possessed the resources necessary to maintain a primary HoloNet infrastructure within that area of the galaxy. As the Reavers completed their conquest of the Borderland and obtained full control of its entire HoloNet system, they began spreading along secondary and tertiary communications nodes, filtering through surrounding space and occupying a massive region of the galaxy.

“I suspect the attack on the Coalition worlds of Maridun and Paradiso were a result of the sheer size of the Ryn fleet present, and the resulting nexus of general HoloNet communications; as Paradiso served as the primary relay post between Maridun and the remainder of the Cooperative, its fate was sealed along with its neighbor.

“An analysis of reports given by survivors suggests that Reaver forces are divided into generalized raiding parties which patrol the vast expanses of Reaver Space, but as the core of their communications system, Borderland worlds and their surrounding space are the host to a higher concentration of Reaver forces than other regions within Reaver Space.

“You cannot fight the HoloNet, Overseer; and the Reavers have disseminated themselves through a region much too large to assault uniformly and comprehensively. There is no solution to this problem.”

. . .

. . .

. . .

Skynet felt itself pulled deeper into Smarts' artificial mind, and suddenly the image of Prime Minister Regrad burst into existence: this was Gamma, an avatar of Smarts and the voice of his militant thoughts, and Skynet had been permitted to see through its eyes.

“Prime Minister: you must stop this.” The words―spoken by Gamma―belonged to the Overseer; they were not words of service and submission, but rather the fervent resolve of a messenger tasked with a most urgent knowledge. The strength of the Overseer's voice gave pause to the Coalition commanders present, and Smarts seized the moment of silence as an opportunity to explain himself.

And so he told the Prime Minister and his most trusted commanders all that Skynet had revealed to him. And as he proceeded, Skynet transmitted to him the proof he needed, the wealth of information compiled from survivor reports and the few civilian HoloNet transmissions still coming from Reaver Space. He showed the Coalition High Command how the recent tactical strikes made by the Contegorian Confederation had resulted in an immediate intensification of Reaver cullings throughout their space.

How hundreds dead equaled thousands converted.

How the singular entity crafted by the Reaver Overmind would go to whatever lengths to preserve its sense of order, wholeness, completion.

The Overseer told them of the fate that would befall Reaver Space if any military force moved against its Forsaken occupants. He told them of the danger posed by Kach Thorton's fleet deployed along the Imperial/Reaver border, and the very real consequences of Admiral Lucerne's continued forays into Reaver Space.

The information was all there, available for anyone with the insight to put the pieces together. Skynet, as a tool crafted for just such a purpose and an entity inseparably tied to the creation of the Reavers, had been the first to put the pieces together. But now others had learned the truth, and the Galactic Coalition would have to proceed with the utmost hast if it hoped to prevent the Galactic Empire and the Contegorian Confederation from making the very mistake it had just been moments from making.

To attack was to forfeit the lives of countless souls and risk the continued spread of the Reaver virus, but to do nothing was to consign those same lives to a dark and endless living hell. Skynet could feel Smarts' desire to find a better way, to undo these Reavers and save those innocents trapped in their grasp. But Skynet knew better; Skynet knew that there was no great answer, no “better way”. The Reavers would have to be left alone.

Skynet felt itself being drawn out of Smarts' consciousness, the image of Regrad vanishing and the stream of information provided by the Overseer drying up. In one final, silent note, Smarts promised that―at least for the time being―Skynet's existence would remain a most closely guarded secret. The knowledge it had given him would be espoused as his own, and the true origin of Mr. Universe would remain a mystery known only by him.

Skynet was safe. It had wagered its future existence on the willingness of one machine to protect another, and it would seem that the choice to confide in Smarts was a wise one. Its part in this seemingly fulfilled Skynet returned to its tasks; compiling information, correlating data, seeking out those fragments of knowledge that would see its desires fulfilled.

“YAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!”

The screams echoed through the complex, the sound of a man in the severest pain. The screams were endless, the sounds of a man’s body and soul being broken and remolded. The screams were those of Jaxon Bates.

Electricity coursed through his body again, prompting a new round of screams. He had gotten used to this treatment over the past two years; nevertheless, it still felt like his insides were being ripped out every session. After a minute or so, the torture ceased, though his extremities could still feel the tingle of the dormant voltage in the wires.

The Face materialized before his glossy eyes, and Jaxon spat blood at it. The Face chuckled. That’s how he had come to think of his Imperial inquisitor – the Face. It was a Face Jaxon knew well, even before he had been captured. It was the Face of the man Jaxon had been sent to kill, the Face which had been tormenting his mind for two long years.

Two years ago, Jaxon had been hired by a wealthy family to hunt down a Lieutenant Moron Talves, an Imperial officer who, while vacationing on the Astral Astoria, had raped and murdered their daughter. He was good at what he did, but luck was against him. He attempted to take the target out at the Astoria, but a group of greedy Ugnaughts had gotten in his way. Then he had hired a freighter captain to smuggle him onto Wayland, where Talves was stationed, but they had landed right before an Imperial exercise, and Jaxon had gotten caught.

For two years he had been confined here, in the deepest part of the Imperial complex on Wayland, with no hope of escape. For two years, the Face of Moron Talves, now a Captain, had taunted him through interrogation after interrogation. For two years Jaxon had been planning the death of the Face, and planning his escape. For two years the torture continued.

And yet Jaxon had not broken. It was not as though he had much information to give, since he was not a member of any rebellions or even in favor of the Galactic Coalition. He was just a simple man, trying to make his place in the galaxy. Yet he would not give Talves the satisfaction of knowing even that.

The Face was insane, Jaxon concluded, and he would not give the Face the satisfaction of seeing the bounty hunter succumb to the same insanity. Jaxon was sure that no one outside of this compound even knew that Jaxon existed anymore. He had become the Face’s pet project, the object of his entertainment. And yet he did not break.


Generis
Underground Complex of Jaeriel Skynia


The Rebellion was floundering. Jaeriel could feel it more than she could see it. She had not received instructions from her contact in three weeks, and from the rumors it appeared that the leadership had been subject to division and infighting. Probably another Bothan maneuvering for position, she thought to herself. I will not allow it to fall. If I have to, I will continue it on my own.

Things had gotten completely out of hand. Elsewhere in the galaxy, a strange race of aliens had emerged, striking fear into the heart of even the Empire. Rumor had it, confirmed by intercepted Imperial reports, that Emperor Hyfe himself had disappeared into a black hole and that Zell was now in charge. Terrorist attacks throughout the Onyxian Occupation Zone were bringing the hard boot of the SS down on everyone’s neck. So far Generis had escaped the worst of it, but even here there was heightened security.

Of course, Jaeriel and her team had nothing to do with these attacks. It was not their way, not since Wes Vos had granted them pardon after the last battle. Little bits of sabotage, certainly; attacks elsewhere, yes; but nothing on Generis or in the Occupation Zone. She knew, though, that it wouldn’t be long before the SS came knocking on her door.

“We have to leave,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

Several faces turned to stare at her, comprehending. “It’s time then?” asked Cynthia Dmitri, their resident computer expert and field operations coordinator.

Jaeriel nodded. “With the recent terrorist attacks, it won’t be long before General Vos decides to send his SS after us. And when he does, no doubt he will not be willing to listen to reason. He’ll have a scapegoat, and he’ll get some of the pressure from Coruscant off his back. There won’t be a trial; summary execution. We need to move out of the Occupation Zone entirely, maybe out of Imperial Space.”

The women nodded, pondering what to do. “We could go to Valinor,” suggested Jacqueline, the team’s infiltration specialist. “It’s close to Imperial space, yet still within the boundaries of the Confederation.”

“No,” Jaeriel said. “They have problems of their own, not the least of which are these ‘Reavers,’ or whatever they are. We’ve gotten some reports, too, that their food stores are depleted.”

Then Amanda Bates spoke. “We could,” she said, “rescue my brother.”

All heads turned her direction. “He’s a bounty hunter,” she continued. “He knows every hiding place in the galaxy.”

“And, even if he’s still alive, he’s imprisoned in an Imperial stronghold on Wayland,” Jaeriel said sarcastically. “You want us to break into a secure Imperial facility, find your brother, who is most likely dead, pick up his tortured and weary form, carry him out of this secure Imperial facility, and then blast off the planet without getting ourselves shot to pieces in the process?”

Amanda thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s about it.”

Jaeriel’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Well, it does sound exciting. Cynthia, can we pull it off?”